The morning comes too fast, as it always does.
Sophie is awake before the sun, bouncing on my bed like a tiny hurricane.
“Mommy, Mommy, wake up!
It’s pancake day!”
I groan and pull the pillow over my head.
“Five more minutes.”
“No, Mommy!
You promised!
Chocolate chip pancakes!”
She’s right.
I did promise.
I promised because she got an A on her spelling test, her first A ever and I told her we’d celebrate.
I didn’t think she’d remember.
She’s three.
Three-year-olds don’t remember promises.
Except mine does.
I drag myself out of bed and into the kitchen, where Sophie is already sitting at the table, swinging her legs and humming a song from her favorite cartoon.
She’s wearing her princess pajamas, the ones with the sparkly crowns, and her hair is a wild mess of curls.
“Chocolate chips or blueberries?” I ask, pulling out the mixing bowl.
“Both!”
I laugh, the first real laugh I’ve had in days, and start making pancakes.
For a moment, I forget about the dream.
For a moment, I forget about Alexander.
For a moment, I’m just a mother making pancakes for her daughter.
Then Sophie says, “Mommy, where’s my daddy?”
I freeze, the spatula hovering over the pan.
“What?”
“The other kids at school have daddies.
Where’s mine?”
I don’t know what to say.
I never know what to say.
I’ve been avoiding this question for three years, and now it’s here, staring me in the face, and I can’t run anymore.
“He’s…
he’s not here, baby.”
“Where is he?”
I take a deep breath.
“He’s far away.”
Sophie frowns.
“Doesn’t he love me?”
The question hits me like a punch to the chest.
I set down the spatula and kneel in front of her, taking her small hands in mine.
“Your daddy doesn’t know about you, Sophie.
But if he did…
if he did, he would love you more than anything in the world.”
It’s a lie.
I don’t know if Alexander would love her.
I don’t know if he would care.
But I can’t tell her the truth.
I can’t tell her that her father denied her before she was even born.
Sophie nods slowly.
“Then why doesn’t he know?”
“Because…
because Mommy was scared.
Mommy made a mistake.”
“What mistake?”
I close my eyes.
“The kind that hurts a lot.”
Sophie is quiet for a moment.
Then she says, “It’s okay, Mommy.
I’m not mad.”
I pull her into my arms and hold her tight.
“I love you, Sophie.
I love you so much.”
“I love you too, Mommy.”
Later that day, while Sophie is playing in her room, I find the photograph.
I don’t mean to, I’m looking for a sweater in the back of my closet, but there it is, hidden in a shoebox.
A photo of me and Alexander, taken three years ago.
We’re standing in the garden at the Albert estate, surrounded by roses.
He’s looking at me like I’m the sun.
I’m laughing at something he said.
I stare at the photo for a long time.
I study his face, the sharp jawline, the gray eyes, the smile that used to make my heart flutter.
I remember the way he held my hand.
I remember the way he kissed me.
I remember the way he promised me forever.
Then I remember the way he looked at me when I told him I was pregnant.
The way he stepped back.
The way he said nothing.
I shove the photo back into the shoebox and push it to the back of the closet.
But I can’t unsee it.
I can’t unfeel it.
Alexander Albert is still in my heart, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t get him out.
Hook: I’m still standing there, lost in memories, when Sophie’s voice rings out from the other room: “Mommy!
Who’s this man in the picture?”
I freeze.
Slowly, I turn around.
Sophie is standing in the doorway, holding the photograph I thought I’d hidden.
Her eyes are wide.
“Is this my daddy?”